Ahoy, I start cooking at 6am most years. It’s a tradition, a personal one, and it gives me pleasure to be awake early with a mission on my mind. There’s little light available on a Thanksgiving morning in November. In Brooklyn, the sun creeps over the housetops and river, climbing past the chimneys of countless homes, a puff of smoke here or there dotting the horizon, and settles into place a few hours later. By seven the sun is blazing and by eight it’s severe and bright. But at 6am it’s still murky, a promise withheld.
Thankful for you, your cooking inspiration and your book recommendations.